The hall was full of smoke.

From outside came shots, shrieks, cries, loud curses and groans, cheers, French and Russian voices, the galloping of horses, words of command.
The French were there.
"To me," shouted Marteau at the top of his voice.

"France!" The first to heed the call was young Pierre.

He descended the hall, watched the conflict a moment and, having possessed himself of a club, battered down the man nearest him, unsuspecting an attack from the rear, then ranged himself by the side of the surviving Russian and the Frenchman.

He did not come through scathless, however, for one of the renegades cut him fiercely as he passed.